


Grounded

by sv_you_know_who_I_am



Series: A Court of War and Starlight One-Shots [1]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6983575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sv_you_know_who_I_am/pseuds/sv_you_know_who_I_am
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nesta has found herself bound to the Cauldron, but the ancient, wild power of the artifact overwhelms her at every turn. She spends time in the forest of the Summer Court, where she and the rest of the Night Court have secured an alliance, to try to get a grip on herself. Unfortunately for her, she’s not the only one in the forest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: After Chapter 25 in “A Court of War and Starlight,” my ACOTAR 3 fan fiction. (I'm working on getting it all onto Ao3, I promise!)
> 
>  
> 
> You do not have to have read all of ACOWAS to understand this fic--only that Nesta is attached to the Cauldron and everyone is taking refuge in the Summer Court before preparing to attack Hybern.

It was tearing her open from the inside out.

An abyss, rippling within her, trying to consume everything--the marrow from her bones, her blood, the tendons of her muscles, and every breath she drew in.

She’d be damned if she let it take her.

The only place she felt like she could handle it was alone in the woods, in the vaguely threatening silence that filled the oak and birch trees. Even the blasted _trees_ were different here, as though they lived and breathed instead of remaining dead and silent, only continuing on because of nature’s will. No, Nesta suspected that these trees had a say over whether they grew or fell or bloomed or breathed. This new power inside her hummed with awareness of it, as though she were intimately connected with every living thing in the world.

There was no _room_ for it.

 _Just give up_ , the power inside her crooned. _Let me take over. Let me handle it . . . give up. Give up. Give up._

“No,” Nesta spat out loud, not caring if she was heard. She was alone, and for all the trees lived and breathed she didn’t think they cared whether she was talking to herself or not.

She fought the urge to rip her shoes off. She knew if she did--if she let her bare skin touch the earth--she would sense the worms, the dirt, the insects, _everything_ that dwelled beneath. The one time she had done it she had thought she felt the earth spinning beneath her, and she had promptly vomited into the nearest bush before forcing her shoes back on her feet.

They all thought she didn’t care, that she didn’t listen, but she had heard the stories. She had heard what they believed the Cauldron was, how the world had sprung from its dark waters. Nesta knew that the stories were true. Only, the Cauldron wasn’t a Creator--the Cauldron was just the receptacle of the raw materials, the thrumming life and power of the world. It would consume everything just as soon as it would give it life. Just like it was doing to her at every moment--consuming her, even as it gave her every breath in this cursed immortal body.

A cursed immortal body that, despite its exponential advantages over her mortal form, still was not big enough to contain the Cauldron’s wrath. As a human woman, her emotions had been overpowering enough--only her iron will had allowed her to control them, had kept the rage from destroying her during those years in that hovel. She had thought of her feelings as clothing that she could slip in and out of--each feeling so complex and large that there was hardly room for any others, so she would focus on one at a time until she had done all the feeling she could.

Now it was worse. Now her emotions were _literal_ , and it was terrifying. The first time she had burst into flames--when Eris had dared lay his hands on her--she had felt nothing but rage and wrath, along with a glint of bloodthirsty glee as she had watched him burn.

She didn’t know that person. Didn’t know the woman who would enjoy seeing a man’s skin melt away, fae or not.

She still didn’t know if he’d survived. And she didn’t even care.

Rage had always been her favorite, the one thing that she could count on to help her survive, even if it kept everyone at arm’s length--perhaps because of that. Now it was the dominant feeling, and she burst into flames at least once a day, though she had learned to sense it coming and retreated into the woods before she could hurt anyone else.

But then, when she had burned out, the sadness and hopelessness would flood in, dousing the rage but drowning her at the same time, until her skin and organs became water and she wondered how she didn’t go spilling out onto the ground, never to come together again. And once, when she had been alone here without her sisters and no real allies, she had felt herself slip away into smoke, wishing she could drift away on the wind and never return. That had been the first time she’d had anything like peace since Calanmai, but it had been so bleak, so fathomless, that it hadn’t really felt like peace at all.

 _Peace is an illusion_ , the Cauldron murmured to her in her own voice. Somewhere along the lines she had learned how to distinguish her thoughts from the Cauldron’s whispers. _Those who seek it will never find it, and will destroy themselves in pursuit of it. They are fools._

Nesta hated herself for agreeing. She had seen the world slip away into war, watching foolish queens trade away security for immortal life, while those who were good, like her sister and the High Lord of Night, struggled to hold on to the breaking pieces, which were determined to be broken despite their efforts.

_That’s right. The world is broken. Order, peace . . . illusions. There is only power, and you and I are the only ones with true power._

“No, that’s not true,” Nesta said with a gasp. The trees blurred together before her eyes as the thrumming insistence of the Cauldron pulsed in her veins. She struggled to breathe, and her hands clutched mindlessly at her hair and her skin, leaving red marks where she clutched. She hardly heard the rip as her nails snagged on the fine silk of her Summer Court gown and tore the sleeve off her shoulder. She shook violently as she tried to hold back the pulse of power that was threatening to break loose.

She couldn’t.

It broke from her and she screamed as the wave of it exploded from under her skirt, causing the trees to bend and sway and sing and scream, the fabric of the world to crinkle around her like tin before snapping back into place. At that release, Nesta collapsed to her knees, curling her knees to her chest and gasping for breath, tears streaming down her face as the earth spoke into her skin and begged her to give up and slide away into its essence.

-

Cassian wasn’t sure if he felt the world cringe because everyone could feel it or because he happened to be close enough to sense the ripple effect--the trees sigh, the grass bend in an unnatural breeze. But he instantly called upon his magic, causing his Siphons to glow red, and stalked through the forest to find the source. If it was Hybern or some other nasty creature coming to harm his High Lord and Lady . . .

. . . Shit.

It was worse.

His whole body went stiff, sending a jolt of discomfort through this sensitive wings, when he saw Nesta Archeron lying facedown in the grass in a clearing of trees. The first and last thing he wanted to do was run to her, find out what had happened . . . ask if she was all right.

But he could do none of those things--couldn’t bring himself to. So he relied on what he knew best. “You didn’t strike me as someone who liked rolling in the dirt,” he called.

Nesta let out a yelp and jerked into a somewhat seated position, looking wildly for the source of his voice before her eyes landed on him--and narrowed. “What are you doing here?” she spat.

“Learning the territory for when my soldiers arrive,” he said honestly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “But last time I checked, you don’t have soldiers. Or any reason to be out here at all.”

“You don’t know a thing,” she seethed. Cauldron boil him, she was such a viper--and her poison was honed just for him. His lips parted slightly at the fury on her face, but then they twisted into a smirk.

“Careful now, before you light on fire again,” he said. He’d heard the warnings from the others, knew that her new talent for flame was her defining feature.

He’d also heard about Eris. And he’d sworn the moment he’d heard that he would turn Eris’s insides to his outsides for what he had tried to do to Nesta--and then he would let her roast him.

Something in Nesta’s face crumpled, and Cassian’s pulse staggered at the look of hopeless devastation that appeared for half a second on her sharp features. Damn, she was _beautiful_ as High Fae--she had been beautiful as a mortal, but _now_ . . .

“Go away,” she said, her voice low and exhausted, but still furious.

“You go away,” Cassian said. “I have business here.”

Her eyes snapped up at him again, but he did not flinch away. “I was here first,” she said as she rose to her feet, seeming off-balance.

Stalemate. Neither of them were moving unless the other did. And Cassian had no intention of walking away from her, not when she looked so . . . feral. And afraid.

Cassian flexed his jaw. “Well, then, maybe you can make yourself useful.” Nesta bristled, but he ignored her. “That pulse of magic . . . did you feel it? I need to be sure it wasn’t Hybern or some other foul and nasty.”

“It wasn’t Hybern,” Nesta said hoarsely. She looked off into the trees and Cassian followed her gaze, but then his eyes drifted back to her face, catching sight of the bob of her throat as she swallowed. His pulse quickened, and the air between them seemed to tighten. His eyes drifted down and his brow furrowed when he saw her torn sleeve, the red marks across her ivory skin.

He took a step closer to her, hand rising as if to extend help before he forced himself to draw it back. “You’re not all right,” he accused, his eyes already scanning her body for other injuries, other harms.

“I’m just fine, thank you,” Nesta snapped, whipping her head back to look at him.

He strode near her until he was looming over her, but she never balked, never cringed--just locked eyes with him and stared with a challenge on her mouth. “Liar,” he breathed. He could see the stormclouds swirling behind her eyes. “What happened?”

Her lips parted and she didn’t respond for a moment. Instead, he saw her nostrils flare delicately--her fae senses taking in what she hadn’t detected when she had been human. “You stink,” she breathed, but the way she said the words told him that she didn’t mean it.

“So do you,” he returned, raising his eyebrow and quirking his mouth so that she knew that he didn’t mean it either. In fact, hers was perhaps the most intoxicating scent he’d ever encountered. Like . . . salt, and fresh-forged steel, and bitter winter air--nothing remotely feminine, except perhaps the hint of anise. It filled his blood, roaring through him like it had the first time, only stronger now . . . much stronger. He could barely speak, so much did it overwhelm him. But he managed to grind out, “What. Happened.” Their bodies were so close now, but neither of them dared give an inch.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she insisted, her teeth clenched and her eyes blazing.

He regretted it before he even did it, but it wasn’t enough to get him to stop. He raised his hand and brushed his calloused fingers over her shoulder, examining the marks there and the tear in her clothing. The moment his fingers touched her skin, they both went rigid.

“Damn, Nesta,” he breathed as he became aware of the power flowing through her, out of her. His hand rested on her skin--her exquisitely soft, tempting skin--as he took the measure of what he was sensing in her. He recognized this turmoil--had felt it himself when he was young, before he’d started using the Siphons. “Does anyone know?” His question was low, soft, as non-threatening as he could make it. His eyes glanced to her chest, full and gorgeous, as it rose with deep and staggered breath.

She sucked in a breath through her nose. Then, determined as ever to keep the line drawn firm between them, she shifted her shoulder away from his hands and whispered, “No.”

-

 _How did he know?_ How could he sense the raging storm beneath her skin with only a touch of his fingers? How did he see right through her, call her on all her lies, all her masks? It was infuriating--it only stirred the storm further, egged her ever closer to her rage.

But when his fingers had rested on her shoulder . . .

For the first time since Calanmai, she felt . . . calm. Normal. Or as normal as she could as a High Fae. For the first time, she felt like Nesta again, not some pathetic writhing thing struggling to fight off the Cauldron’s murmurs at every moment. The trees stopped blurring, the thrum of the earth paused beneath her feet--she could _think_ again.

Enough to realize that he was far, far too close.

So she moved her arm.

And the chaos swirled again.

A tiny gasp caught in her throat and she knew he heard it, knew he saw the shift in her eyes.

“Nesta,” he said softly, and she _hated_ how much she liked the sound of it, how much the caress of his breath on her cheeks felt _right_. No, no, no, no, no.

But yes.

He had been a force to be reckoned with when he had visited her in the mortal realm, but now, with her fae senses, she got the whole experience of him: his scent, like roasted meat and the air after a thunderstorm and smoke. Her skin reacted to his touch on a whole different level, and she began to curse her own body when she felt her breasts tighten, her spine stretch as though it could bring her closer to him. She began to imagine his broad, calloused hands on her waist, wanted to feel his nose on her throat again . . .

And she wanted to find out if he could take away the wildness that shackled her soul.

Her fingers twitched as though jolts of energy ran through them as she raised her hand and laid the tips of her fingers on his chest, eyes locked on her own hand as she touched him . . .

And stilled.

She let out a whoosh of breath.

That one breath released Cassian’s grip on himself and he growled. His hands snatched her waist, palms burning through her thin dress as they drew her to press against him.

She was too relieved by the silence to pull away.

“We’ll get this thing away from you,” he swore, his voice stirring deep in her bones. “You don’t have to live with this.”

“What,” she began, eyes stubbornly fixed on his chest--not his face, not his face--”is the point of living if there’s no promise of death?” There. The question that had been haunting her since she had been Made.

A sound rumbled in Cassian’s chest, but she could not tell what it indicated. “There’s plenty of promise of death,” he said. “Why do you think I spend all my time looking for trouble?”

Her breath shook within her, as though she wanted to laugh but had no energy to do so. Finally, she tilted her head up to look at his face, only to find him staring down at her. The intensity, the mischief in his hazel eyes--they made her knees go weak. She managed not to slip--but she wondered if Cassian felt the effort it took. Her eyes flicked to his still-injured wings and then back to his face. “You seem to have no trouble finding it.”

Dark amusement crossed Cassian’s brutal features, but he said nothing.

“I know you did it . . . you did it for Azriel,” she murmured. She was unable to move even as she thought about reaching out and touching the bit of wing that she could see behind him. “You protected him. Just like I would protect Elain.”

“Yes,” Cassian grumbled, his voice like a tremor in the earth. “An Illyrian is nothing without his wings. And I would become nothing a million times if it meant saving Az.”

Her heart contracted and her lips parted. They were so alike, the two of them. Whatever the material that stirred someone’s blood to flow--Cauldron or not--it was the same for them. And Nesta wanted to hate it, wanted to push it away. She wanted to keep as far away as possible from someone who could know her so intimately, but . . . she was alone. She was alone in this strange place, in this strange body, with this strange burden, and Cassian had been the first to see it. See her. And maybe she was tired of keeping everyone and everything out, especially when it seemed to be making it easier for the Cauldron to devour her. And if there was anything she hated more than being vulnerable, it was losing. And she would not lose herself to the Cauldron.

“Kiss me,” she said, and she wasn’t sure what foreign, slumbering part of her the order had come from, but she didn’t regret saying it--didn’t regret the flash of fire that darted through Cassian’s eyes, nor the smirk that twisted his handsome lips. 

“As you wish,” he murmured. She stood on her toes to meet him as he lowered his mouth to hers, pressing his warm, soft lips against her cool and hard ones.

A warm wave crashed into her and swept her away as his lips moved so gently against hers--not the devouring she had expected. And she found herself pressed closer, wanting more . . .

He growled and his arms wrapped all the way around her back, lifting her from the ground just slightly so he could kiss her deeper. And then his tongue--which had made her leap back and shut down all those weeks ago--brushed against her lips, politely requesting entrance. And she allowed it. She opened her lips and felt his tongue sweep in, his mouth caressing hers and she returned the gesture.

He was practically crushing her against him, but she didn’t mind it one bit; she craved it, craved the grounding, the sense of gravity he brought to her. Here, right now, she didn’t feel like she was going to dissolved into nothing. She felt real.

She lost count of the moments, but soon Cassian pulled away. She braced herself for his teasing, taunting. Perhaps she had done a poor job, or he had found something else lacking in her . . . but she saw the opposite in his face, and when their eyes locked--

Something else locked, too. Like a cord, tied from her soul to his, burning like forged steel, shackling them together. His eyes went wide, his nostrils flared, and there was something like genuine fear in his eyes. His grip on her began to relax.

Nesta swallowed, realizing her mouth and throat had gone dry. And when she felt his hold slipping, she clutched to his shoulders. “Don’t let go,” she said. A pause. “Please.” If he let go, the Cauldron would slip back into her, taking away her realness, her gravity, filling her with the chaos again.

“I . . . I have to,” Cassian rasped, the fear still in his eyes.

“Please.” Hell, she had never begged like this before. Not for anyone. Not even Elain. “It . . . the Cauldron. I don’t want--” She couldn’t even put it into words, but he saw the desperation in the flush on her cheeks, the quivering of her voice.

Cassian licked his lips and swallowed, then carefully set Nesta down so that she was standing on his rather large feet, one arm still bracing her waist. With the other arm, he worked some straps at his shoulder, until the red stone that was attached there slid down into his palm. He let out a long breath and then handed it to her. “Here,” he said gruffly.

“What is that?” she asked, her voice coming out a little stronger now.

“A Siphon. It helps me channel my power,” he said. “Maybe it will help you.”

Nesta let him drop it into her palm. The glowing red stone was practically the size of a lemon. It looked more deadly than beautiful. “How do I wear it?” she asked, raising her eyebrow. She had no pauldrons like his, and she wasn’t sure she could make sense of the straps.

A wolfish grin crossed Cassian’s face. “I think it would look rather dashing on that lovely throat of yours.” Nesta’s breath caught, and Cassian chuckled. “Here,” he said, sliding back so that she was on the ground but keeping one hand on her as she passed the stone back to him. She laid a hand on his torso as he undid the straps and fixed it around her neck, adjusting it so it draped like a necklace, instead of sitting high like a collar. “Try that,” he whispered, taking one step away from her and breaking their contact.

She tensed as she expected the wave of chaos, but instead there was a mere trickle--a taunting, a threatening promise, perhaps, but . . . it didn’t sweep her away. “Yes,” she breathed, looking up at him. “Thank you.” She pressed her lips together as she tried to banish the tears that were prickling at the corners of her eyes.

Cassian grinned. “Don’t get sappy, sweetheart. I know I’m a fantastic lover, but don’t be needy.”

A spark ran up her spine and she straightened, nostrils flaring. “ _Prick_ ,” she spat.

He laughed. “Yes, but at least I’ll admit to it.” He rolled his shoulders casually, causing her mind to whirl with anger and confusion--but not rage. “That’s a loan,” he said, jerking his chin toward the Siphon. “I want it back the second you get yourself detached from that Cauldron.”

Before she could open her mouth to offer a retort, Cassian strode off into the woods, sauntering as though he thought he was the best thing on two legs. “Take care of yourself, Nesta,” he called, not looking back as he raised his hand to wave goodbye.

Nesta stared after him, gaping and, for the first time in her life, at a total loss for words.

-

_Shit. Hell. Damn it._

Cassian’s pace quickened the moment he was out of Nesta’s sight. He wished he could fly to get away faster, even as everything within him screamed at him to go back to her. Not for the Siphon--he was off-balance without it, but nothing he couldn’t handle. No.

That latching he’d felt between them, the sort of thing he’d only ever heard rumors about. He’d felt it stir once when she was human, but now . . .

 _Fuck_.

What did he do to deserve this? Here he was, grounded, and about to start a war, with a million things on his mind and problems to deal with, and she walks in to make it all seem so insignificant.

And she’d hate him if she knew.

Because as Cassian strode away from Feyre’s eldest sister, feeling as though he were slogging through mud so intense was the effort, there was one thing that was perfectly clear in his mind, body, and soul.

Nesta Archeron was his mate.


End file.
